Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sleep did not come.
They had given her a tent smaller than Alasdair’s but set close enough she could feel the movement outside, hear the murmur of guards, the shifting of boots against damp earth. A lantern burned low, its light unsteady, the casting of the shadows stretched and shrank along the canvas walls.
Claire sat on the narrow cot, hands folded in her lap to keep them from shaking. The damp, the cold, and she finally admitted the terror of her situation, seeped into her bones.
The words, “Yer father promised ye to a verra powerful man,” replayed in her mind, circling and cutting deeper each time they returned.
Her future had been planned, arranged well before. The man’s statement was not new or surprising. Her belief, as foolish at it may seem, included expectations her father would at least talk to her. And she would be placed carefully, advantageously, even kindly. Not traded or used as bait for war.
Claire straightened as a shadow crossed the tent flap. “Enter,” she said before she could be summoned.
The canvas shifted and Alasdair stepped inside.
He wore dark riding leathers, his movements unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. “Still awake,” he observed.
“I imagine you prefer your captives conscious,” Claire replied.
A flicker of amusement touched his expression. “Only the interesting ones.”
She grunted.
“You should rest,” he said as he tipped his head toward her. “Tomorrow will be eventful.”
Claire did not move. “Tell me the rest.”
He glanced at her, his brow quirked in question. “Of what?”
“My father,” she said. “You began a story. I would like to hear how it ends.”
Alasdair studied her for a moment, then leaned back against the table, cup in hand. “Ashford is a practical man,” he said. “He understands power. He understands survival. When the Crown began tightening its hold on the Highlands, men like him saw opportunity.”
Claire’s jaw tightened, her fury barely restrained and she gripped the edge of the cot so as not to attempt to escape the truth of this man’s words. “And I was part of the opportunity.”
“Aye,” he said easily as he began to pace the small tent. “A marriage alliance. Ye placed carefully where ye could influence decisions. Where yer presence could secure loyalty.”
“To whom?” she demanded. “The Crown? Or men like you?”
Alasdair stopped pacing and smiled faintly. “To whoever held ye.”
The statement struck like an arrow piercing her heart. Claire rose slowly to her feet. “I am not something to be held.”
“Nay?” he asked softly. “Then why are ye here?”
She stepped closer, anger pushing past restraint. “Because you took me.”
“Did I? The lads said they found you after they watched you escape my brother,” he replied. “Regardless, yer father paid for my time, it matters not how you landed in my tent.”
Claire’s breath faltered just slightly enough for him to see.
He pushed off the table, closing the distance between them. “Do ye truly believe he didna ken what would happen when ye crossed the border?” he asked. “That he didna calculate the risk? The reward?”
Claire held his gaze, her hatred for this man increased by the moment. “I believe,” she said, her voice steady despite the fracture beneath it, “whatever he intended does not bind me.”
Alasdair’s expression sharpened. “Nay,” he said. “It doesna.”
For a moment, something almost like approval flickered in his eyes. Then it was gone. “But it does make ye valuable,” he continued. “And that is what matters now.”
“To you,” Claire said.
“To everyone,” he corrected.
Heavy silence stretched until she almost capitulated. Then perhaps the man would leave her tent. Leave her alone to wallow in her foolish actions and the hateful actions of her father.
“Ye should have remained in the keep,” he added as he pointed at her.
Claire’s brow lifted slightly, surprised the man cared.
“Ye made it too easy.”
She smiled cooly. “I did not come out for you.”
“Nay,” he said and set down his cup. “Ye came out for him.”
His words settled with the edge of frustration. As if all seemed to do for his brother and not for him. It interested her what he said was not an accusation, it was an understanding. The man knew her worth to Lachlan. A man he failed to mention up to this point.
Claire did not deny it.
Alasdair nodded once, as though confirming something to himself. “Grand,” he said quietly. “That will make this far more interesting.”
He turned then, moving toward the tent flap. “Rest,” he said without looking back. “Ye’ll want yer strength.”
The canvas fell closed behind him. Claire stood still for a long moment. She exhaled and slumped onto her cot. Thoughts raced through her mind as she realized the ground beneath her had shifted. England was no longer safe, and her father was no longer a certainty.
And Lachlan, he would come for her. She knew it now with a clarity leaving no room for doubt. Not because she was valuable or leverage.
Because he had chosen her. The thought settled deep, and she feared for his safety. He was the type of man to risk his life for others. He had proven so just hours ago.
She must get word to him. Tell him to forget her, forget the folly of saving her.
Her future was set and it had been determined he was not to be in it.
# # #
The camp breathed slowly and unaware of their presence. Lachlan moved through it like a shadow.
Low to the ground, silent over damp earth, his steps placed with careful precision as he slipped between tents and firelight. Behind him, two of his men followed, their presence steady but distant enough not to draw attention.
The scent of smoke and horseflesh hung thick in the air. Voices drifted through the night along with laughter. The actions careless and cocky. It told him they did not expect an attack.
Grand news, all together.
Lachlan paused behind a supply cart, scanning the layout. The two guarded the central pavilion. Alert, but their postures lagged, most likely due to boredom.
“She’ll be there,” one of his men whispered and pointed to a smaller tent to the left.
“Aye,” Lachlan murmured. His gaze flicked across the camp, mapping paths, counting bodies, measuring distance.
He would not rush this. Not when he was this close.
A figure moved near the pavilion.
Alasdair.
Lachlan stilled, held up his hand to stop his men. His brother stepped out into the firelight, speaking briefly with one of the guards before moving off toward another section of the camp.
Opportunity.
“Now,” Lachlan said.
They moved fast and silent. The guards at the tent barely had time to register movement before Lachlan was on them—one pulled back into shadow, the other silenced before he could raise an alarm. No hesitation or noise.
Lachlan pushed through the tent flap and stopped.
Claire stood inside alive and seemingly unharmed.
For a heartbeat the world narrowed and everything else fell away.
She turned at the sound and their eyes met.
Relief hit him like a blow, sharp and immediate, right into his heart.
Unwelcome in its strength.
“Lachlan—”
He crossed the space between them in two strides, his hands catching her arms, pulling her toward him as though to confirm she was real.
“You are here,” she said, breathless, her voice shaky.
“Aye,” he answered, his voice rougher than he intended. “Did ye think I wouldna be?”
Something in her expression shifted and softened.
“I knew you would come,” she said. “But I wish you did not. You have to forget me.”
The words settled deep. He released her slowly, though every instinct told him not to.
“I could never forget ye, English Rose.”
Her gaze swept over him. “I have brought harm to your clan.”
He shook his head and pushed loose hair from her brow. “Nay. Ye have brought me life.”
Claire nodded. “I have never felt more alive than when I am with you, Lachlan.”
He swept a kiss along her brow. “We need to move,” he said as cupped her cheek. “Now.”
She nodded but did not step away immediately. “Lachlan, there is something you need to know.”
“Nay,” he said firmly. “Later.”
Her gaze held his. “It cannot wait.”
Frustration flickered—but he saw it then, the change in her. The weight she carried now.
“Say it,” he said.
“My father,” she said quietly. “He knew. He planned this. I was meant to be used.”
The words did not surprise him. Lachlan’s jaw tightened at her father’s machinations. How could he use his daughter in such a way? A daughter as lovely as his English Rose?
Ashford’s correspondence with his father told of many things. Mostly of the quick unraveling of sense after his wife’s death and of his disregard of Claire.
He thought of the letters scrawled in his father’s nearly undiscernible writing. “If Ashford loses himself to grief, watch over the lass.” Watch over an English lass? His father kenned him well for the next statement merely said, “She's a daughter. And daughters deserve better than bargains."
He’d pledged to honor his father’s wishes. Until he met her. Somewhere between England and Raven’s Berry, he lost sight of the daughter. And all he could see was Claire.
“Aye,” he said and hated to admit the truth knowing it would hurt her.
She searched his face. “And you still came?”
The question was not simple, not light.
Lachlan met her gaze fully. “Aye,” he said.
The truth of it left no room for anything else.
A shout sounded outside. Too close. Claire’s breath caught.
Lachlan’s focus snapped back. “They’ve found the guards,” one of his men hissed.
Time was gone.
“Come,” Lachlan said, catching her hand.
This time he did not let go. And she did not pull away.
Together, they ran into the night.